We have a little bit of school left, and we’re still in Los Angeles, but summer officially starts with June.
On Saturday we served dinner for new friends, buttermilk biscuits and peach cobbler under the California stars. A common thread among the women was our passion for storytelling, but on this evening it was the men who spun most of the tales. Our home has a warm glow at night, heightened by the presence of guests.
Yesterday I went to book club at Katie’s, then we spent the afternoon swimming and napping. The kids took an intensive swim course last week and went from tentative water babies to sprouting gills. We’ve spent so much time in the pool lately that my skin is already infused with that distinctive summer smell of sunscreen and pool water and vitamin D.
I have high hopes for June. It’s typically my favorite month of the year, September a close second. Later we’ll move to the lake house, and I’ll have a birthday, and people we love will pass in and out of the slamming screen door.
I feel like a grown-up suddenly. It’s not a husband or a mortgage or two children that grew me up, somehow it’s an awareness of purpose. A weighty responsibility that I seem to have avoided until now. Like most of my life has been pretend, or inconsequential. Now my experience has brought me here, to this summer, and everything matters.
Less existential, I’m trying to be more self-disciplined about some things. Just little tweaks like washing my face every night or turning on music instead of a droning tv. Nothing drastic, nothing unattainable. Just a check-in with myself and priority to set the tone this year.
Unintentionally, the first weekend in June was meaningfully social. I hope this is a good omen.